


Hiding in Plain Sight

by Amyrose47



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Army Doctor John Watson, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF John Watson, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Love, Crime Scenes, Crossover, Drama, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Drama, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Made For Each Other, Monsters, Multiple Pairings, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, POV Multiple, Power Dynamics, Purgatory, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Silver Fox Greg Lestrade, Tattoos, Torture, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyrose47/pseuds/Amyrose47
Summary: Of course Sherlock Holmes knows about the supernatural. His brother is the British Government, after all. By extension, Mycroft Holmes sits on the very top of the British Men of Letter's web of hierarchy. When Sherlock and John run into Dean and Castiel, their worlds become so much bigger.Johnlock, Destiel, and Mystrade.Updated sporadically.





	1. The Deception of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Per usual, this had started out with an immensely simple little tidbit that I wanted to share. All I needed was Johnlock and Destiel in a bar. But then, my mind supplied a tremendously fitting back story, and so, here we are. Lol. Buckle up for a multi-chapter Sherlock/Supernatural crossover! I'm as excited as you are to see where the story leads!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes sees and knows all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five years B.J.W (Before John Watson)

Mycroft Holmes sat upon a rigid throne behind a fortress of mahogany, diligently attending to the never-ending stacks of paperwork on his desk. He had just released a quiet sigh of discontent when his assistant, Anthea, alerted him to an important incoming call. 

"It's Dr. Coleman with an update on the vampire situation in Lower Clapton." She informed him as she transferred the call to his desk phone.

"Ah, yes." He replied curtly before answering.

"Dr. Coleman," The eldest Holmes brother greeted with a false tone of light cheer. "I do hope that things are being handled rather discreetly regarding this infestation." 

A pause from the Men of Letter's head of security, however, alerted Mycroft to trouble. "Well, Mr. Holmes, we did have everything under control. That is until..."

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath and held it.

"...apparently, two or more of them were involved with an official police murder investigation that Sherlock was assigned to." 

Mycroft didn't bother trying to conceal the frustrated groan that emanated from him upon this revelation. "He chased them off, then." He supplied, from simple deductions of his little brother's boringly predictable habits. Mycroft ran a hand over his facial features before posing a follow-up question. "Did he manage to capture or kill any of them at least?"

"No." Was the simple reply. "And now, the entire nest has been alerted. They've scattered into the wind, I'm afraid."

"I see. Do put Ketch and his team on it, then. It will take longer and require more resources, but we will still be able to exterminate them all."

"Yes, sir." 

Mycroft swiftly returned the phone to it's receiver and then stared at it with scrutiny for a few moments, before turning to his assistant. "Anthea, I need you to do a pick up and then meet me at the old warehouse in precisely ninety minutes." He ordered. 

******************************************************************

"What in the bloody hell do think you're playing at? Do you have any idea who I am?!?" A gentleman with salt and pepper hair barked as he exited the sleek black car in the middle of the warehouse. The sound of the passenger door slamming echoed through the building. Anthea quickly and quietly guided him over in her bosses direction, before returning to the vehicle.

Mycroft was standing with one foot crossed over the other ankle, leaning into his umbrella for balance. A bright overhead light lit him nicely from above in the abandoned warehouse. It was all quite theatric, which Mycroft throughly enjoyed. A genuinely pleased smile presented itself before he opened his mouth to speak.

"Yes, my apologies, Detective Inspector Lestrade. But it was imperative that we met as soon as possible."

Upon hearing his name and title the other man's body relaxed ever so slightly. "I'm sure you're aware that I do, in fact, possess a mobile phone." Greg snarked.

Mycroft tried not to smirk, though he was amused at the sarcasm. "I prefer to meet with persons-of-interest face to face." He explained. 

"Ay, but I could have you arrested for kidnapping. And a detective inspector, no less." But his voice quickly dropped it's anger as he took in his surroundings.

"With all due respect, it may very well be an intriguing endeavor on your part. I certainly might get a thrill out of you putting me in handcuffs, however." Mycroft speculated boldly. The D.I.'s eyes went wide at that statement, but then his whole demeanor shifted to one of flirtation. The older man was so expressive and his devilishly handsome good looks had Mycroft's thoughts in an unusual place. Not that he never...well, anyway...He cleared his throat to ground himself back to reality. "We need to talk about Sherlock." 

"Ah, bloody Christ!" Lestrade threw his whole body into the statement. His body tensed, he dipped his head, and his hands shot up. "I should have known. What with all the drama and the craziness that this," Greg gestured around the room and back towards the car, "whole meeting puts off. Geez, Is everything with Sherlock this obnoxious?" 

Mycroft smiled lightly and dipped his head to try to hide his amusement. "Yes. I'm afraid that you've only just begun to uncover the eccentric nature of all that encompasses my little brother." 

"...brother..." Greg said the word quietly and thoughtfully, like he was testing it out. "Alright." He stated, steeling himself a bit more and looking directly at the eldest Holmes brother. "What is it that you want to talk about?" 

"Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade, as the elder brother it is my utmost responsibility to ensure Sherlock's safety, general well being, and to clean up his messes. However, because of the minor position that I hold in the British government, Sherlock's...escapades...tend to often interfere directly with my line of work." Mycroft sighed heavily and the D.I. took the opportunity to speak. 

"You don't have to use my full title, it's a bit of mouthful, yeah? Greg is fine. Also, I didn't catch your name."

Mycroft found himself a bit stunned by this. Perhaps it was because the Inspector's attention was so obviously on him and not on the consulting detective they were meant to be discussing. After a moment of recovery, he replied. "Oh my. Do excuse my manners. The name is Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft. Seems fitting. An unusual name for an unusual gent...with an unusual brother." Greg smiled widely.

Mycroft blushed slightly under the D.I.'s gaze. He paused for a moment to fully read the man in front of him; The way he held himself, leaning in towards him slightly. The smile radiating confidence, but there was also the way he grasped one hand loosely in the other across his body, as though still guarded. The smile didn't completely reach his eyes: Nervousness. Speaking of his eyes, they were a beautiful shade of dark brown. Bagged underneath from sleepless nights, at the office, no doubt. He must spend most nights there, what with the state of his suit. Being a detective inspector doesn't pay as well as one might think.

He quickly wondered just how many suits the man owned. It seemed that the one he was in was worn rather frequently. Then there's the matter of that dastardly ring on his finger. Unhappily married though, as indicated by the tan line not standing out as much as it should if he never took it off, and the indentation not as prominent. No, it seemed this man was married more to his work than his spouse, and was not always faithful to either. The one thing he couldn't quite figure out is why the other man seemed to have an interest in him. 

He must have been staring a bit to sharply because the Inspector seemed to clam up a bit under his scrutiny. "Right. My brother. The matter that we're discussing." He said, mostly to remind himself what he was supposed to be doing because this damn gorgeous flirt in front of him was disrupting his thoughts.

"Right." Greg's smile grew impossibly larger and he chuckled. 

Despite himself, Mycroft returned the chuckle. "I really do need to have this discussion with you."

"You DO know that, while yes, it's your job to worry about your little brother, it's not actually your job to take on the full responsibility of his well being and you don't have to clean up his messes. In fact, you probably shouldn't. Sherlock has to learn how to do those things for himself."

Mycroft utilized a few seconds to internalize Greg's words. "I suppose you are correct, for the most part. However, Sherlock is a bit of a special case. And, again, his messes usually end up disrupting my most exceedingly crucial work. Not to mention, as with all addicts, he needs a bit more support to ensure that he's taking proper care of himself."

That shut Greg up spectacularly. Enough so, that Mycroft raised an eyebrow in question at the older man. "Surely, you knew about Sherlock's condition?"

"I...I had suspected." He confessed, rubbing the back of his neck with one of his broad hands. "Just...I was just hoping that I was wrong, is all." 

"Oh, Gregory." Holmes despaired. Greg's eyes shot up to hold his gaze at the sound of his name on Mycroft's lips. "My brother has a brilliant mind, as you've witnessed, but unfortunately he does not handle 'feelings' or 'emotions' very well. I'm sure you'll come to learn this." 

"Alas, the work that he's begun recently is good for him, as well as your police force. I don't wish to discourage it, only to monitor it." He finished.

"Monitor it." Greg parroted.

"Are you aware how often you repeat others?"

Greg ignored that comment. "What exactly are you asking of me?" He questioned instead.

"I can monitor my little brother quite well on my own," Mycroft assured. "However, it would be immensely helpful, were you to relay information and perhaps even steer him away from certain cases or situations."

"You're asking me to be Sherlock's handler, aren't you?"

Mycroft looked down at Greg's shoes as one corner of his mouth turned up in smirk (He seemed to be doing a lot of that in Gregory's presence.) before redirecting his gaze back to Greg's dark chocolate eyes. "I suppose if you really must put a word to it, then yes." 

"No." Greg said defiantly.

Hmm. Interesting. Not that Mycroft couldn't just force his way, but he would much prefer not to. Besides, he only needed to invoke more favorable words of reason in order for Gregory to agree to his ways. "I would have to ask that you reconsider. For Queen and Country, and for the sake of the world itself." 

Greg scoffed. "You really are a drama queen, Mycroft Holmes." 

"I won't deny it, but my previous statement is true. There are things that you are unaware of out there, Gregory. Things that, if exposed, could destroy our entire world. I'm simply asking that you play a part in not allowing that to happen." 

"What kind of things?" 

"I'm afraid I can't indulge." 

Greg’s confusion and hesitation was written across his features. 

Mycroft sighed. (He was doing that a lot today too.) The lanky man then raised his left hand above his head, signaling his assistant. "Gregory, please." He practically whispered. "The sake of the world aside, I know you're fond of Sherlock and I suspect that you would like to see him reach his full potential as well." 

Greg looked deeply into Mycroft's eyes for some time, searching for something. Seemingly having found what he was looking for, he nodded. "Yeah. Alright." 

"Good. Anthea! Please escort our guest, here, to his location of choosing."


	2. When Sparks Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets Cas. POV Dean.

Dean sat hunched atop an old wooden table in the abandoned barn, twirling his knife into the structure beneath him. An exasperated sigh left him and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. 

"You sure you did the ritual right?" He whined at Bobby. The older man glared daggers at him, and Dean immediately apologized. He knew it wasn't Bobby's fault. He was just tired of waiting. "Touchy, touchy, huh?" He added sarcastically, because that's his default position.

In an instant, the old metal shingles on the roof of the barn started clanging and knocking heavily.

Dean and Bobby were immediately up and ready, on high alert. "Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind." The younger man voiced as the noise continued. Bobby just shrugged his shoulders in response.

Suddenly, the lightbulbs above the hunters began to blow out, shooting cascading showers of sparks. A shadowy figure, that Dean couldn't quite make out because of the fluctuation of light, sulked into the barn. The figure approached slowly but surely, walking right past all of the sigils and wardings that the hunters had laid for the being.

Bobby and Dean shared a glance with each other, perplexed. As the thing came forward, it was obvious that it resembled a man. He was shorter than Dean, with dangerously dark spiky hair and unnaturally piercing blue eyes. 

Both hunters seemed to be backed into a corner now, and so they started shooting. The ammunition penetrated the chest of the man over and over as he continued to walk towards them, unfazed. 'Shit, shit, shit.' Was all Dean could think, and it was written plainly across his face. The unknown being stopped a few feet in front of Dean. 

The young hunter scrambled to grab the demon knife off of the table behind him, and held it behind his back. "Who are you?" He demanded sternly. 

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." The man answered in an impossibly deep baritone. 

"Yeah?" Dean's lip curled up in a sneer. "Thanks for that." He said flatly before shoving the knife straight into the man's heart.

The mysterious man swayed with the force of the blow. Then he grabbed the handle, pulled it back out, and dropped it to the floor, completely unaffected. 

Dean's eyes went wide and his mouth went slack. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Bobby raised an eyebrow at Dean, then he raised the crowbar he had in his hand. As he prepared to strike, however, the being turned around and grabbed the weapon. Fingers were then laid upon his forehead and the old man instantly crumpled to the ground.

Dean swallowed thickly. He was completely out of his comfort zone and he didn't know what to do next. It was an unusual predicament for him.

"We need to talk Dean." The creature announced. "Alone." He added, while looking curiously down at the collapsed hunter.

**************************************************

Dean knelt over Bobby, contemplating checking for his pulse.

"Your friend's alive." The being stated absentmindedly. He was now leaned into the wooden table, flipping through some of the hunter's notes that were left there.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded again.

" Castiel." 

"Yeah, I figured as much. I mean, what are you?" He growled, staring coldly at the creature. 

The man looked up from his reading to fix his gaze on Dean. "I am an angel of the lord." He responded simply, as though it was obvious.

Dean stood slowly from where he was crouched down. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing." His voice was bitter and he was agitated. Angry that this, thing, took him for a fool. 

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith." Castiel told him condescendingly, his icy blue eyes boring into Dean's. 

A crack of thunder made the hunter draw back slightly. The angel proceeded to stand as tall as his vessel would allow. Then lightning crackled and lit up the interior of the barn in flashes. The sharp sound of thunder accompanied the strikes and in the light, two shadows emerged from behind the proclaimed angel. They spread out from both sides, big and significant, unfurling wings from this creature, now out and on full display.

Dean became dumbstruck with awe for a split second, but that instantly melted into rage. "Some angel you are." He spat viciously. "You burned out that poor woman's eyes." 

Castiel peered down at the ground and then turned his head to the side before looking back up at the Winchester. Then he sundered over, closer still to Dean. "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be...overwhelming...to humans." He intoned. "So can my real voice, but you already knew that."

"You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?" The angel nodded. "Buddy, next time, lower the volume."

"It was my mistake." Castiel admitted. "Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them." He explained. "I was wrong." 

"And what 'visage' are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?" Dean snarked. 

"This?" Castiel grabbed at the trench coat covering him and looked down at it thoughtfully. "This is...a vessel." He peered back up at Dean through his lashes. 

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" He asked in disbelief. Uneasy at the thought.

"He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this." Castiel affirmed with a small smile.

Dean's anger erupted. "Look pal, I'm not buying what your selling. So, who are you, really?"

Castiel furrowed his brows slightly, and tilted his head to the side. "I told you." He declared firmly.

The hunter rolled his eyes. "Right. And why would an 'angel' rescue me from hell?" He bit out. 

Castiel ventured closer still. It made Dean uneasy. "Good things do happen, Dean." He assured, stopping only when he was within inches of the man. 

"Not in my experience." The phrase was hard, but the tone was softer. It caused the angel to recede. 

"What's the matter?" Castiel asked, his brows furrowing tighter as he attempted to read Dean's facial features. His head tilted to the side again upon realization. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." He mused aloud.

Dean's lips parted to protest and he dropped his head slightly, but no words came. He tried to steel himself instead and his nostrils flared as he fought back the sting of tears. "Why'd you do it?" He demanded.

Castiel's head righted itself and his lips pulled tight for a moment before he answered. "Because God commanded it." The angel asserted. His eyes locked onto Dean's. "We have work for you."

**************************************************

Dean sat on a park bench, watching kids run around on the playground in front of him. He felt Cas' presence before he ever saw him. "Let me guess, you're here for the 'I told you so'." He voiced without looking over at the angel.

"No." The angel rasped.

Dean shrugged. "Well, good. Cause I'm really not that interested."

A moment passed in silence before Cas looked over to Dean. "I am not here to judge you, Dean." He tried to assure.

The hunter locked his eyes on Cas'. "Then why are you here?" What other reason was there?

Cas drew in a long breath and glanced back at the playground. "Our orders-" The angel began. "-Yeah, I've had about enough of these orders of yours-." Dean interrupted, but Cas cut back in. "Our orders," He said louder this time, "Were not to stop the summoning of Sam Hane. They were to do whatever you told us to do." 

This revelation startled Dean a bit. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Your orders were to follow my orders?" The hunter reiterated.

"It was a test," Cas confirmed. "to see how you would preform under...battlefield conditions, you might say." 

Dean took a minute to process this. He shook his head and licked his lips as he gathered his thoughts. He tossed his hands up without them leaving the safety of his knees. "It was a witch." He explained to the angel. "Not a tad offensive." He added sarcastically, and that managed to coax a huff of laughter from the etherial being. 

The gesture quietly softened something inside of Dean.

"So, I, uh, failed your test, huh?" The hunter pursed his lips and nodded. "I get it. But you know what? If you were to wave that magic...time traveling wand of yours, and we had to do it all over again, I would make the same call." He stared defiantly at Cas as he finished his words. The angel returned the stare and so, Dean continued. "See, I don't know what's going to happen when these 'seals' are broken. Hell, I don't know what's gonna happen tomorrow." Dean shrugged. "What I do know is, that this, here." He gestures to the playground. "These kids, the swings, the trees, all of it. Is still here because of my brother and me."

"You miss understand me, Dean." Cas objected. "I am not like you think. I...I was praying that you would choose to save the town." 

"-you were?" Come on. That couldn't be right, could it?

"These people." The angel stated, leaning forward as Dean had done, and placing his elbows on his knees in the same gesture. "They're all my Father's creations. They're works of art." 

A smile pulled at Dean's lips as he watched Cas observe the scene in front of them.

How was Cas such an oxymoron? And how was Dean supposed to build (let alone keep) walls up around him, when he contradicted everything he thought angels were? Maybe Cas wasn't a total dick, like the rest of his command. Maybe.

"...and yet, even though you stopped Sam Hane, the seal was broken. And we are one step closer to hell on Earth for all creation." The hunter cringed at the implication. "Now, that's not an expression, Dean. It's literal." They shared yet another glance. They seemed to do that a lot. "You of all people should appreciate what that means." 

Dean roughly swallowed down the panic that intruded his mind along with the horrible memories of hell. The heavy gaze of the angel made him steel himself, however. He would not break in his presence. But then, the angel really managed to surprise him. "Can I tell you something, if you promise not to tell another soul?" Cas' voice was softer now. Unsure. 

It intrigued Dean, so he shrugged slightly and tried to keep the inflection out of his voice when he replied, "Okay."

"I'm not, um," Cas dropped his head. "a 'hammer', as you say." He shifted his gaze back to Dean. "I have questions. I have...doubts. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore. Whether you passed or failed, here." The confession was raw, honest.

Dean inhaled slowly as Cas continued, "But, in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I...don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean." The pity in Cas' eyes churned Dean's insides. "I truly don't."

Dean let out the breath he didn't know he was holding and sat back into the bench. A whoosh signaled Castiel's departure. 

Well, fuck.


	3. Organized Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade. Life before John. 
> 
> *Drug Use in this Chapter.*
> 
> 3 Years B.J.W.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long to write. Such is life. Enjoy!

Sherlock released the tension in the make shift tourniquet around his arm, the chemical compound now mingling with the red blood cells in his veins. A sigh of relief escaped him and he slumped against the dingy wall of the slum house he was in. Sherlock closed his eyes and began assessing the changes in his body as the cocaine solution took hold. Increased heart rate, an added alertness to his mind, and yet a pleasant buzz from dopamines flooding his brain. 

A deep chuckle emanated from him without his permission. The person passed out on the dirty mattress next to his stirred briefly at the noise. Then another noise, this one sharp, filled the air for a fleeting second. It sounded muffled to Sherlock, like he was underwater and the noise came from above the surface. There it was again. Curiously familiar. 'Don't concern yourself with it.' He scolded himself, unsure if he thought it or said it out loud. He came here to get enveloped in the high, an escape from himself and the world around him. But that annoying sound pulled him from it yet a third time. 

'Phone.' His subconscious supplied. 'Ah, yes. Of course.' With some effort, he pulled himself back into the current world and fished his phone out of his pocket. Three texts from D.I. Lestrade. A case! And it wasn't far from here! Sherlock briefly wondered if he should go in his altered state, but he was on uppers and he knew they would only sharpen his focus if concentrated. 

********************************

Barely twenty minutes after the D.I.'s first text was sent, Sherlock arrived at the address he had been provided.

"You look like shit." Lestrade stated plainly as the consulting detective approached. 

Ah. Yes. He had come straight from the drug den, clad in sweats and a hoodie. A far cry from his usual attire of dress wear topped with his Belstaff.

Sherlock halted in front of the other man. "Yes, well, even at my worst I am still worth a thousand times more than your most competent officers at their best." Sherlock retorted with sincere arrogance. 

Lestrade eyed the tall man suspiciously. He clasped a firm hand around one of Sherlock's forearms, preventing him from getting any closer to the body lying in the alleyway. It was still swarmed by half of the forensic team anyway. Greg's gaze intensified as he soaked in the sight before him. The raggedy appearance, the dilated pupils, and the buzzing energy overflowing and causing Sherlock to bounce on his heels.

Sherlock tried valiantly to jerk his arm back from Lestrade's grip, but the D.I. refused to be shaken off. 

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing, showing up to a crime scene high as a fucking kite?" He whispered sternly as his eyes searched to make sure no one else was in hearing distance.

"What are you on about Lestrade? I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. Now let me go." Sherlock growled.

On the contrary, the older man twisted Sherlock's arm behind him forcefully and pushed him forward, effectively bringing him to his knees. "I know you think we're all just worthless idiots, Sherlock. But it is quite literally my job to observe these things." He explained as he proceeded to put him in handcuffs. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Let me go!" Sherlock shouted. "I need to examine the body! You need me! You need my help!-" 

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting you fuck up my entire crime scene in your altered state." Greg pulled the young man onto his feet and managed to walk him over to the squad car, despite Sherlock's protests. "You're so-called 'Consulting Detective' job is a privilege, Sherlock. You're lucky I don't have you tried for contempt, among other things." 

"Oh, please." Sherlock rolled his blood shot eyes. Lestrade shoved him ungracefully into the back seat, slammed the door, and then locked it. "I'll deal with you after I wrap up here." 

"You're making a mistake." Sherlock shouted. "You NEED me!" 

'What a drama queen! Just like his brother.' Greg supposed, shaking his head.

******************************

Sherlock was a thorn in Greg's side for the entire ride back to the Scotland Yard. He spent the time berating and belittling everyone that had been at the crime scene today. By name. And in great detail. "Shut up, Sherlock." The D.I. groaned when he finally pulled into a parking space. "Jesus, you're insufferable." 

"All this energy has to go somewhere, Lestrade. Since I am unable to expend it physically or mentally, verbally is the only option left." 

Greg looked up into his rear view mirror to glance at Sherlock, then nodded. He couldn't deny that that made perfect sense. He shut off the engine and sighed deeply. It had been a long day already, and it was about to get even longer. "I'm going to put you in a holding cell to finish riding out...whatever this is." Greg explained. 

Sherlock didn't argue. He simply followed where Lestrade lead him. Honestly, he was just thankful for a safe place to crash. The downfall was imminent. He felt it coming on, like a train barreling towards a cliff's edge at high speeds. 

In fact, he barely managed to make it to the cell before the world around him was consumed by blackness. Before it completely overtook him, an intangible feeling of respect for Detective Inspector Lestrade registered in Sherlock's mind, then a feeling of warmth, and then there was nothing.

********************************

An undeterminable amount of time later, Sherlock stirred and became vaguely aware of a dull pain shooting up through his left shoulder. His mouth was also devastatingly dry, and his head pounded. He groaned loudly as he readjusted into an uprighted position. A flimsy blanket fell off of him and onto the floor in a pathetic heap.

Another groan left him when he realized he wasn't alone. Lestrade was there, sitting on a bench opposite him, and he was staring intently at Sherlock. 

"I found your list." The statement hung heavy in the air, because those four words told Sherlock an entire story. "You've met with my brother." It wasn't a question, just a deduction. Greg simply nodded. "You know, I didn't want to believe Mycroft when he told me you were an addict." The D.I. grimaced on the last word, then brought his left thumb up to scratch absently at an eyebrow. It was then that Sherlock noticed his other hand was occupied with a tiny plastic cup. Greg handed the water to Sherlock, who snatched it up and sipped it down quickly. "I am not an addict. I am a user." Sherlock clarified, as though it made a difference to the other man. "I use to alleviate boredom or to heighten my thinking processes." He tossed the cup back to Greg, who caught it easily.

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't." He voiced sternly. "You can't honestly expect to be allowed to do your 'consulting detective' thing, if you continue to put drugs in your system. I don't care how good you are, there are RULES, Sherlock. Rules that even YOU have to follow." 

Sherlock rolled his his eyes and Greg gritted his teeth in agitation. "Jesus, you're lucky you aren't dead right now with what you were on!" 

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Gerald. I specifically measured the dosage of each component." The taller man snipped. 

"It's Greg. And you're playing with fire, Sherlock. One of these days, if you don't stop, you're going to get burned." 

***************************************

Lestrade sat at his desk with his head in his hands. A sharp tapping sound, the tip of Mycroft's umbrella on his office door, alerted Greg to the eldest Holmes presence. The cop gave his face a thorough scrub with both hands before rising from his chair and allowing a warm smile to plaster itself on his face. "Mycroft." The D.I. said, low and soft. "It's good to see you. Sorry that it had to be under such unfortunate circumstances." 

"Yes, Well, this event was inevitable." Mycroft stated as he finished entering the small office and closed the door behind him. He chose to stay standing, rather than take a seat. So, the detective swaggered over to the front of his desk and leaned his weight back onto in, not quite sitting or standing. Ever the flirtatious rebel. Mycroft briefly imagined how Greg might look splayed out on top of that desk. He cleared his throat. Perhaps another time. "I am quite grateful, however, for the way you handled my little brother both at the crime scene and here at the Yard. With a firm yet understanding disposition." 

Greg wondered exactly how he knew what had transpired, and to what depth. CCTV and Witnesses, he figured (rather accurately). Eyes and ears everywhere. 

He shrugged to himself. "Sherlock needs a firm hand and he needs to understand that his actions have consequences. But, he's also brilliant and I'd prefer not to charge him for his offenses today. Don't want him to be deemed unfit to work along side my police force." 

"Your a wise man, Gregory. A solid head upon your shoulders, indeed." Mycroft praised. The D.I. blushed adorably. He dipped his head and peered up at Mycroft through his lashes. The Holmes brother would never admit to the fluttering he felt in his both his stomach and his heart at that gesture.

"Please do see to it that Sherlock is not charged with anything substantial. I feel obligated to inform you that your career would be in jeopardy should you ever choose to disregard my recommendations." It was said lightly but with a firm sense of certainty.

"I have a feeling that you hold a much higher position in the government than you've lead on. With the way you just said that." Greg laughed cheekily. Then his demeanor turned serious as his gaze wondered ravenously along the length of Mycroft's lean body. "A true man of power." He mused. "I'm glad the responsibility falls on such deserving and capable shoulders." 

"Thank you Gregory. How kind of you to say." Mycroft found himself being pulled steadily toward the other man, like a magnetic force. Another man of power, but wrapped in a nonchalant and charismatic shell. How unorthodox. And lovely.

"I do hope that you find time to relax and unwind from time to time." Lestrade's voice dipped in tone as Mycroft had inched closer to him, and he found himself sitting fully back onto the ledge of his desk. "All work and no play make Johnny a dull boy, after all." 

Mycroft now stood impossibly close. Greg could feel his heart racing like a wild stallion. He licked his lips and shamelessly parted his legs to invite Mycroft even closer yet. To his surprise, the other man took it. Mycroft stood flush with the desk, lightly pressed into the other man and he placed his hands on either side of him. Greg almost forgot to breathe. Just a minuscule shift forward would have their lips connected. 

Mycroft took this opportunity to study the way Greg looked at him. Eyes dilating rapidly, shallow breathing, and an overall look of want. He felt the heat of the other man's body. So close, and yet so far. He wanted him too, but on his own terms, of course. After all, Mycroft was the one that held the real power between them. He was more than capable of controlling his mind and his body, despite the urges. Something Greg seemed to have a harder time denying.

The taller man leaned in to whisper in Greg's ear, breath hot and tickling the sensitive skin. "I get very few precious hours to do with what I please, Gregory. I assure you that I make the most of that time." Greg gasped and shuddered at the implications, and a smirk tugged at Mycroft's lips. He abruptly pulled away from the D.I and stood up straight. A coy smile now plastered on his face. 

The smug bastard, thought Greg as Mycroft retreated cooly back to the office door. What a tease. "Perhaps you'll be hearing from me again rather soon, Detective Lestrade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My schedule has become very chaotic for me, so I anticipate posting chapters bi-weekly from here on.


	4. Within Grasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, my poor Destiel heart! I hope those two work it out. I'm not pleased with the way Dean has been treating Cas. 
> 
> Alas, it was nice to write about season 8 Destiel, it's one of my favorite seasons for them and it would have been an excellent place for canon Destiel. <3
> 
> Dean keeps seeing Cas after returning from Purgatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one!

******************************************

"Dammit, Cas! Come on!" Dean barked as he stumbled up the incline to the portal. 

With one foot through, he turned to reach out for the angel. "Come on!" He shouted again. Cas reached out and took his hand.

"I've got you, come on!" The muscles in his arm strained to hold tight. "Dean!" Cas shouted. 

"Hold on!" But the hunter's grip was slipping. "Dean!" The name sounded like a panicked plea from the angel. 

Dean watched in horror as their hands were forcefully pulled from one another by the force of the portal, and in an instant, he was gone. 

*****************************************

The memories from purgatory stung deep, bare to Dean's soul. The recent sightings of Cas had increased the frequency and the intensity of the flashbacks. 

In the hotel bathroom, Dean splashed his face several times with stinging cold water. He allowed the clear liquid to cloak the tears he couldn't hold back as his heart quietly broke for what seemed like the thousandth time since he returned. 

Standing in the cold silence, his heart continued to sink as thoughts of what-if plagued his mind. It wasn't fair to blame himself. Even Dean knew that. He did everything in his power to get Cas out. That's what hurt the most, though. That he did everything in his power, and yet he still failed to save him.

Dean reached up and grabbed a hand towel to dry his face on. As he was patting his skin, however, he heard it. The unmistakable sound of angel wings fluttering. A light breeze of disturbed air prickled at the hunter's neck. He dropped the towel (and his jaw) and stared wide eyed at the reflection of his angel in the mirror. 

His heart throbbed in his ears as it beat erratically. He turned slowly, hoping not to scare off what must be a hallucination. His eyes scanned the figure from head to toe.

"Hello Dean." All of Dean's doubt left him when he heard the deep rich baritone. "C-Cas?" The hunter's voice broke along with the dam keeping his tears held back. He lifted a hand to the angel's face, needing to touch. To know that he was real. His hand cupped Cas' bearded jaw and it was solid. Dean's other hand came up to clasp a shoulder.

Once he was sure that he was indeed, tangible, Dean pulled him in with all of his might for a fierce hug. He buried his head into Cas' shoulder and he sobbed. 

Cas let him. The angel's heart broke as he listened to the quiet sobs and felt the tears seep through his coat. He was the cause of this pain. Why did it feel like he was always a source of pain for Dean, when all he wanted was to bring him peace and comfort?

Realizing that he was standing stiffly under Dean's embrace, he forced himself to relax. He even snaked his arms around the hunter's waist and pulled him in closer. Dean sighed, and his tears began to slow.

They stood like this for quite some time. Long enough to draw concern from the other Winchester in the next room over. "Everything okay in there, Dean? D'ja Fall in?" Sam called.

Dean pulled back slightly from Cas to answer his brother. "I'm fine Sam. Just need a minute to myself." His hands swept up higher to wrap behind Cas' neck.

The angel squinted his eyes and tilted his head as he tried to read the reasoning behind Dean's response on his face. He wasn't very good at reading people, However. Human emotions and feelings were still so complicated to him. He found his gaze settling onto the hunter's lips, and he subconsciously licked his own.

He felt Dean's eyes follow the movement, so he glanced up to find the hunter now fixated on his mouth. The angel swallowed roughly. "Dean-" The name came out breathy and low. It wasn't even all the way across his lips before the hunter stole it from him, pressing their mouths together.

Cas' mind went blissfully blank at the contact. His body on the other hand, responded. His hands splayed out across Dean's lower back, wanting to have more of him in his grasp. Cas' lips meet the pressure of Dean's and he even began to deepen the kiss. A moan rose from his throat and it came out in a growl that Dean swallowed up greedily as he slipped his tongue into the slick heat of Cas' mouth.

This was impossible, Dean thought. And yet, here he was. His angel, solid and sturdy against him. Tasting of earth and lightning. So raw and so powerful. How could he possibly hold back any longer?

Cas' beard scraped against his own stubble as they kissed, reminding Dean of the masculinity that should scare him away. It had for a long time, but it just didn't seem important anymore. He loved the angel, and he wouldn't change a single thing about him.

“Cas...” Dean rested his forehead against Cas' and took a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make his angel understand what he was feeling. But Dean was never any good with words and it sometimes left things awkward between them. Cas already had so little to go on. 

“Cas.” Dean tried again, but he couldn’t seem to say anything more. Fortunately, there was enough emotion behind the way he said the name, that Cas seemed to understand the gist of what he was trying to convey. A smirk lifted at the corner of the angel’s mouth. “Dean.” He replied, and the hunter chuckled before returning the smile.


	5. The Truth Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 year B.J.W.
> 
> Greg Lestrade finds out the truth in more ways than one. He really gets kicked while he's down in this one. Poor Greg.

Greg stood next to the desk in Mycroft's study, his coat and suit jacket tossed over an armchair. He stared inquisitively at the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down gently. "I shouldn't be here, Myc." The words sounded like a thought voiced, more than an actual protest.

Mycroft, also down to his shirt sleeves, mirrored Lestrade by placing his glass down on the desk. He navigated over to the other man and stood directly behind him, chest to back. He pressed into him and gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, trapping Gregory between the inanimate object and himself. "I disagree." He whispered, his hot breath caressing the shell of Gregory's ear before he kissed the sensitive skin just below. 

"Mycroft." It was spoken half way between a weak protest and longing plea. The detective made no attempt to move away, and so Mycroft began trailing kisses down the side of his neck. When he came upon his clothed shoulder he bit down over the fabric, drawing a light breathy moan from Gregory. 

"I'm a married man." Greg contended when Mycroft's hands moved up to unbutton his crisp white dress shirt. "Doesn't that bother you?" Mycroft's deft fingers made quick work of the buttons and soon the shirt hung open. "No." He answered clearly as he pulled the fiber barrier off. It fell to floor, leaving bare skin in it's absence. 

Fire pulsed through Greg's veins as Mycroft's hands gripped his hips firmly. His tongue traced and his teeth scrapped at the skin where neck met shoulder. Greg closed his eyes, sighed, and tilted his head to allow Mycroft better access.

His body responded readily, and despite himself and he almost dropped the subject. Almost. 

"Why?" He pushed. Mycroft sighed into the crook of his neck. "Don't do this. Not tonight."

Greg laid his hands atop Mycroft's and he removed them before turning around to face the other man. He allowed himself to stay trapped between Mycroft and the desk, even though the mutual hardness of their erections was deliciously distracting. 

The taller man trailed his fingers slowly up over Gregory's well defined torso. His fingertips teased lightly over a nipple, and he rolled his hips forward. 

Greg's head tipped back and he swallowed down a moan. "If I can't stay faithful to her, then I won't be able to be faithful to you either." Greg panted. Mycroft dropped his hand and lifted an eyebrow at him. "I don't require you to be faithful, Gregory. We aren't in a relationship."

Greg frowned. "Right. Right, I know. It's...It's just sex." He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the other man. "But our jobs overlap too, Mycroft. And If we keep going the way that we're going...Well, someone's going to end up catching feelings." 

Mycroft's face fell and he backed up a few steps. Once removed from him, Gregory's hands settled backwards to grip onto the edge of the desk as if to steady himself. 

After a few moments in thoughtful silence, Mycroft reached over to retrieve his glass of scotch from the desk and took a tentative sip.

He did not have the luxury of indulging in feelings with his line of work. It's not that he was incapable, but he'd had a lifetime of practice keeping them at bay. Besides, the more space in his brain he dedicated to filling with facts and information, the less space he left for his heart and it's ridiculous whims. Therefore, it was Gregory that was worried about having feelings for Mycroft. Which most likely meant that he was already starting to develop those feelings.

Mycroft sighed in displeasure and the grip on his glass tightened slightly. He should just cut it off here. Gregory was right about their jobs being connected. If things were allowed to continue, there could be some detrimental consequences.

“Gregory...” The detective’s chocolate brown eyes locked onto his and the rest of the sentence died in Mycroft’s throat. He found that he didn’t want to push Gregory away. Perhaps he did have some feelings on the matter, but Mycroft told himself it was because he was already worked up and was hoping for a release.

Then another thought struck him. “You’ve never felt bad about cheating before. What’s different now?” He inquired.

Greg brought a hand up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. “My wife and I are on the cusp of a divorce. She’s...she's been working on cleaning up her act. I should too." He shrugged. "Should at least make an effort.”

”Oh please, Gregory. Don't be so dull. She’s off right now having an affair as we...speak.” Mycroft laid the last word on thick, a bit of a devilish look in his eyes. Gregory's face contorted into a grimace. Mycroft might as well have slapped him with the words. Despite this, he continued. “Which means that what’s actually changed is the way that you feel about our arrangement.”

“Arrangement.” Greg repeated in disbelief. He bent over quickly to snatch his shirt off of the hardwood floor. “Huh. Guess I was wrong about her, and about you.” He snapped. 

”You knew what this was from the start, Gregory." The politician accused, his cold demeanor now settling in. "Don’t get agitated with me because I haven’t been swooned by your charms like you may have hoped. While I admit that I've enjoyed our time together, I am unable to become emotionally involved." He took another, more generous sip of his liquor. "That would be a risk of national security. My work is of the utmost importance, and therefore, will always come first before anything, or anyone, else.”

The D.I. huffed out a bitter scoff and shoved his shirt back on. He felt over-exposed. Mycroft's words hurt, because Greg actually had hoped that he could sway the man. That he could be an exception to the rule. He thought that he was getting somewhere with the elder Holmes brother. Turns out he was wrong. 

Wrong about Mycroft. Wrong about his wife. Wrong about his own damn feelings. 

Fuck. 

***********************************************

Maybe he was crazy for confronting his wife at her work place, but it wasn't like she was gonna be home anytime soon. 

Greg's anger had built substantially on the drive over from Mycroft's flat, causing him to come in hot. The office doors ended up swinging wildly behind him, his over coat flapping behind him in the same frantic fashion. The receptionist startled almost comically. 

"Where is she?" He demanded boisterously. "I need to see her!" 

The receptionist sat there staring dumbfounded at the detective with her jaw slack. It caused his anger to surge. He hammered his fist down onto the desk top and she jumped about a foot in response. "...she...she doesn't work on Wednesdays, Mr. Lestrade." The woman finally stammered.

Her eyes were wide and they kept darting to the phone on her desk. Greg took a steadying breath and ran a hand through his hair, trying to reign his rage into a deadly calm. "No. She always works on Wednesdays." He countered, his voice rough. The receptionist stared at Greg and slowly shook her head. "She hasn't worked a Wednesday in months, Greg. I'm sorry." 

Greg bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. This new information seeped in like hypothermia, permeating his bones with an icy chill. She's been lying. He thought that she was honestly trying to fix things, but here was the proof that she wasn't. That she couldn't change. Maybe Greg couldn't change either. 

Sod this. Sod his reputation as a husband. It had been ruined long before today. As much as he didn't want a divorce, he couldn't live like this any longer. 

He nodded solemnly at the receptionist who gave him a pitying look in return. Greg didn't like it, but he supposed he'd have to get used to seeing it on everyone's faces soon enough. 

**********************************************

A week later, Greg had filed for a separation. He just couldn't bring himself to file for a divorce. Sure, his wife had drug him through the mud, but Greg wasn't exactly innocent himself. So after a serious discussion with her about taking time away to mend what was broken, he moved into a small flat closer to the Yard. 

He buried himself deep into his work, and tried to resist calling on Sherlock unless absolutely necessary. Greg found that the mad genius was acting differently towards him since the blow out with his brother. It was a headache he'd rather do without.

Things finally started settling down for him several weeks later. The distance from his relationship problems made his emotions much easier to manage.

There was one feeling, however, that the D.I. still struggled with: Loneliness. Greg couldn't stand to be alone in his flat. The silence was deafening. He spent longer hours at the office and more nights out at the pub. His flat only seemed to serve a purpose when he needed to sleep. 

**********************************************

One late night at the office, after a long day of endless paperwork, Greg's infamous bad luck hit again. He shuffled through the next stack of papers and cursed under his breath. "Ah, Fuck." 

He thought he'd had this mess of a case sorted, but there it was mocking him. He had forgotten to have Sherlock fill out the one thing he needed to wrap up the case and it was going to court in two days. It couldn't wait. He sighed miserably as he stuffed the papers into a spare folder and stood up to grab his coat and keys.

A cabbie dropped Greg off at Sherlock's apartment building. He walked inside and up three flights of stairs to the door that read 307. He prepared to knock, but he caught two voices from behind the wooden barrier. Sherlock and Mycroft. 

Greg's heart sank. They were arguing about something. They were always arguing, those two. Greg pushed his ear lightly to the door to hear better. Sherlock was loud, as per usual, but he only caught parts and pieces of Mycroft's sentences.

"This is your fault, brother mine." The younger brother spat viciously.

"Hardly...but blame...When...take responsibility for your own actions?"

"You used him for your own pleasure and then pushed him away. Now he doesn't want to call me in because of you! I get bored Mycroft!"

"There are other options besides shooting up, Sherlock!"

Greg's heart dropped all the way to his feet. He hadn't considered that consequence when he decided not to call Sherlock in. He should have. The D.I. lifted his hand to finally knock, but then something else was said that confused him. Mycroft had moved inside the flat and he could hear him clearer.

"Being passed out in a drug den is already dangerous enough without the added danger of the vampire uprise we're currently fighting. Do you not value your life? Do you wish it drained away by fangs ripped into the flesh of your throat?"

Vampires?...

"Oh please, Mycroft. You and your band of monster-assassins have everything well under control. You are immediately alerted when a monster, god, or any other supernatural being enters the country and your men take out the threat." 

There was silence for several long moments. Mycroft moved further away again. "Normally, however...few rogue...Ketch has exterminated a great number...but...finding new ways to get passed our security measures...There's no need for alarm, just extra precautions."

Maybe Greg heard wrong. Perhaps there were mafia members that call themselves vampires or something. He clasped the door handle to steady himself, still not sure if he should even really knock, or if he should try to come back later. Monsters, Sherlock had said. gods. vampires. supernatural. That's not possible. But why would these two, with their overly clever brains, even entertain the idea?

"That's why you did it then? To protect him. To protect yourself."

There was more silence. Then the door swung open without any warning and the Detective Inspector fell through the portal. "Shit!" He cursed when he landed, the folder knocked from his grasp and papers flying from it.

"How long have you been standing there?" Mycroft demanded.

"Yeah, I'm doing alright. Thanks for asking." He snipped as he regathered all the stray papers. "Long enough." He answered before standing and all but throwing the folder into Sherlock's hands. "Why in the bloody hell are you two in here discussing vampires and monsters like they're real?"

"Because they are." Sherlock deadpanned. Mycroft shot him a murderous glare. His little brother just shrugged. "He was bound to find out eventually."

Greg released a harsh dry laugh. They were obviously making fun of him. "Yeah, alright. 'Let's make fun of the dim witted cop.' See how stupid he really is. Hilarious." 

"Roughly 11% of all your cases involve a supernatural element, Lestrade." Sherlock informed him in his usual condescending tone. 

"You really think you're being serious? Are you high right now?" Greg quipped in return.

"For God's sake, Gregory. Everything supernatural; vampires, werewolves, demons, they're all real. And they are all dealt with as swiftly and efficiently as possible by a special British task force." 

The color drained slightly from Greg's face as his brain struggled to process the information. That could't be real, could it? How come he was only finding out about it now? Shouldn't he be required to know these things? How was he supposed to protect London if he didn't know about the added terrors lurking in the shadows? I mean, fuck, it was bad enough without the monsters. 

He stood up straighter and squared his shoulders. "Then I need to know as much as possible about what's out there, and how to kill it."


	6. Dr. John Hamish Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock. Greg is a good friend. Mycroft can be dick sometimes. Sorry it's been so long.

“Nothing ever happens to me.” That is what John had told his therapist so recently. Now here he was, swept up in a whirlwind named Sherlock Holmes. Every day after they met proved more interesting than the last. 

Though he had befriended and moved in with Sherlock within record time, John was sure he would be unraveling the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his life. And he certainly hoped that would be the case. Sherlock was as intriguing and brilliant as he was irritating and emotionally inept. John marveled at the contrast. 

The doctor took his time writing up a blog entry for the first case they worked together. It would have taken far less time if not for the constant interruptions by his new flatmate’s experiments, demanding nature, and his occasional tantrums. However, by the time John was done, he was quite pleased with it. 

“I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case.” Sherlock mentioned to John later, in order to deflect from a dispute about body parts in the fridge. John stood with one hand on his hip and the other pressed against his forehead.

“Huh?” He said unintelligibly and dropped his hands. “Oh, uh, yes.” He answered before plopping down ungracefully into Sherlock’s armchair. (It was the closest.) 

“A Study in Pink. Nice.” Sherlock’s deep voice proclaimed in monotone from his laying position on the sofa. 

“Well?” John asked in return, straightening up in the seat. “You know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone, there was a lot of pink.” He elaborated, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. 

Sherlock grabbed a magazine from the coffee table and flipped through the pages uninterestedly.

“Did you like it?” John probed, dropping his hand from his chin to his lap. He gazed intently at the other man's face, trying to gage his reaction.

“Uhhhm, no.” He replied harshly to the paper he was holding. 

“Why not?” John inquired, his brows furrowed as he watched his friend. “I thought you’d be…flattered.”

“Flattered?” Sherlock lashed out, dropping the magazine to his midsection and looking pointedly at John. “Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.” Sherlock quoted before rolling his eyes. 

John shook his head. “Now hang on a minute, I didn’t mean that in a…”

“Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way? Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s prime minister, or who’s sleeping with whom…” Sherlock explained, waving his hands about as he talked.

“Or if the Earth goes around the sun.” John cut in. 

“Oh not this again, it’s not important!” Sherlock hollered.

“Not important? It’s primary school stuff! How can you not know that?” John asked loudly, his voice laced with disbelief. 

“Well, if I ever did, I’ve deleted it.” 

“Deleted it?”

Sherlock sat up, throughly agitated now. “This is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful! Ordinary people fill their heads with all sorts of rubbish and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“But it’s the solar system!” John cried. 

“Oh Hell! What does that matter?!?” Sherlock argued. “So the Earth goes round the sun. If we went ‘round the moon, or ‘round and ‘round the garden like a teddy bear’, it wouldn’t make any difference! All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots.” Sherlock violently tousled his dark curls, then abruptly stopped and glared at John. “Why don’t you put that in your blog? Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.” With that Sherlock threw the magazine back onto the coffee table, and then flipped onto his side to lie down facing the couch cushions like a sulking child.

John pursed his lips in thought for a moment, before standing and promptly heading to grab his coat. 

Sherlock’s head popped up at the noise. “Where are you going?” He inquired.

“Out. I need some air.” John responded angrily before bounding down the stairs.

***********************************

John walked out into the cool London air and headed for a pub on the other side of town. On the way he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

Care to join me for a pint? JW

His fingers moved a bit stiffly from the cold and John wished he'd had bundled up a bit better.

Depends if you’re buying. GL

The doctor smiled to himself and rounded a corner before typing out a reply. 

Just the first round. JW

Well, alright then. When and where? GL

That pub near the yard you were telling me about. I’m on my way now from Baker Street, by foot. JW

**************************************

John had been sitting at the bar, nursing a pint, for about forty five minutes before Greg finally showed up. The D.I. sat on the stool next to him and began apologizing profusely. 

“I have a hard time getting away sometimes, with such a consistently massive workload. Seems like people are always killing each other and want me to work myself to death too.” Greg huffed but then his face lit up in a smile at the other man. “Speaking of people killing each other, how are you and Sherlock getting on?”

“Ugh. Well, it’s not all bad. I’m certainly never bored.” John sighed before downing the last of his beer. 

He flagged the bartender down and ordered two more.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but when I got home today I opened up the fridge to grab something, and there was a bloody _ severed head _ sitting on one of the shelves!” 

“No! Really?” Greg gasped in an amused horror. 

“Yes!” John insisted. “It’s not just the fridge full of body parts, Greg. The bookshelves are lined with odd books, some of the jars of substances he keeps look really strange to me, and yesterday I found an old shoebox full of small animal bones.”

“Yeah?” The detective questioned as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew full well what Sherlock used those for.

“You know, I asked him the other day what was in one particular specimen jar, because it gave off a certain glow, and he told me that it was _ just trace amounts of angel grace. _ Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.” John laughed. 

Greg managed to huff out a laugh in return. He didn’t want to reveal too much in case John decided not to stick around after all. It seemed Sherlock was being careless with the truth, but that didn’t really surprise the old copper.

“Well, if he hasn’t driven you out with all his madness by now, I’d say you’re doing just fine.” 

John smiled and shrugged. “Guess he’s stuck with me then, whether he likes it or not, the insufferable git.” 

Greg practically snorted in amusement. “You’re good for him, you know.” 

John raised an eyebrow at his friend. 

“What? I mean it. You help him stay grounded and in touch with reality. I was starting to worry that he may never get off that high horse of his. It’s not easy dealing with a high and mighty Holmes.”

John chuckled. “You’ve got that right! You know his brother, Mycroft?”

Greg’s face turned sour and he nodded.

“The bastard kidnapped me right after I had met Sherlock, trying to vet me. Made it to seem like he was all powerful and all knowing. He…” John giggled, the drink loosening his inhibitions slightly. “He offered me money to spy on Sherlock even. Course, I turned him down. He didn’t like that I saw right through his theatrics.” 

Greg smirked. “Being kidnapped by Mycroft is sort of a right of passage. So long as long as you don’t fail his test, anyway.” 

John frowned as he thought. 

After a while he asked, “Are you on the pull tonight?” 

Greg almost chocked on his beer. “Sorry?” He sputtered.

“Sorry. No, I just meant…I mean you _ are _ very attractive, but I was…I was only wondering if I could crash at your place tonight? M’not sure I’m ready to face Sherlock again just yet.”

Greg blushed deeply. “Thank you? I, uh, yeah. Yeah, you can come home with me tonight. No! Not in that way. I’m not trying to get a leg over with anyone. I just…I mean, you’re a nice bloke and, and you’re easy on the eyes, but you’re not my type…”

“Woah, woah. It’s okay, Greg. I know what you mean.” 

After a few moments of followed silence both of them burst out laughing at their mutual awkwardness. 

“Good. Good. Oh God.” Greg practically giggled, wiping away a tear of laughter. “Shall we get a cab, then?”

*************************************  
The next morning John awoke with a pain in his shoulder. He abruptly came back to reality when he realized that he wasn’t alone on Greg's sofa. They had both fallen asleep there while watching the telly last night. 

The television set was still on, News now, and the D.I. was still asleep. He must have shifted closer in the night, because now he was leaned into John’s side. No wonder John didn’t have any nightmares last night. 

“Uh, Greg?” John’s voice was rough with sleep. 

Lestrade stirred slightly with a small grunt of disapproval. One of his hands wrapped around John's waist, his subconscious not wanting to give up hold just yet.

John looked down at his sleeping friend and smirked. “Greg. You’re on my shoulder you bastard.” He said a little louder. 

“Hmm?” That seemed to wake him up a bit more. “Oh. Sorry.” He withdrew his hand and used it to rub his prickly face.

“S’okay. Wasn’t my bad one.” 

Greg sat up slowly. “Wow, I must’ve been pretty tired. Hope you still slept okay. Breakfast?” He stood up and quietly padded over to the kitchen.

“Sure. Want some help? I could at least put the kettle on.” John offered.

“Nah. I got it. Thanks though.”

John relaxed into the couch, his shoulder still throbbing dully. The news station was doing a story about some long lost painting that had been recently found. The next story, however, made John bolt upright.

“Greg! Forget breakfast! There’s been an explosion at Baker Street!”

********************************

John and Greg easily pushed through the crowd gathered on the street. Lestrade flashed his badge at the officers manning the police tape, and he and John ducked under the flimsy plastic barrier.

Once inside, they both sprinted up the stairs to 221 B, John leading. 

“Sherlock?” John called. The doctor and the detective inspector both come to a halt in the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, Mycroft in John’s.

They sat there calmly, as if half the living area wasn't in shambles from the explosion.

“John.” Sherlock simply greeted, plucking a string on his violin.

“I saw it on the telly. You okay?” John asked, perplexed by the calm of the two brothers.

“Me? Oh. Yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently.” Sherlock explained before turning his attention back to Mycroft. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Mycroft questioned, not believing his brother in the slightest.

“Something I’ve got on, It’s just too big, can’t spare the time.” Sherlock rambled absently.

“Never mind your usual trivia, this is of national importance.” Mycroft chided.

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock retorted.

“Fine.” The politician spat in reply.

“Don’t be a dick to your brother, Sherlock.” Greg grumbled.

Both of the Holmes attention snapped to Lestrade. 

“Perhaps one of you could get through to him?” Mycroft asked with hope in his voice. “I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.”

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?” Sherlock retaliated.

“No, no, no. You know I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the career and re-elections, well, you don’t need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires…legwork.” He said, the last word making him grimace.

“I’m sorry John, how was the lay-out?” Sherlock thought to ask, again changing the subject.

“Sofa, it was the sofa, Sherlock.” Mycroft pointed out in a sing-song voice.

“Oh yes, of course.” The detective acquiesced after looking at his friend again.

“How…?” John began to ask. "Never mind." He digressed.

“Oh. Interesting.” Sherlock stated upon his second review of the two men standing in the living room. 

“Hmm?” Mycroft took a more encompassing look and his facial features turned to stone. “Quite.” He practically whispered in agreement.

“Well, now, hey. It’s not what it looks like.” John defended. 

“I suppose it’s really none of our business.” Mycroft snipped.

“It’s not.” Greg snapped back. Mycroft gave up his right to care who he was sleeping with when he cut things off between them.

Awkward silence hung between the four men.

John cleared his throat. “So…national importance?” 

Mycroft directed his angry stare at John for a moment before he steeled his outward emotions. “John, how is it, living with my brother? Hellish, I imagine.”

“Well, I’m never bored.”

“Good! That’s good, isn’t it? Well, with everything that you’ve tolerated so far, it seems that you will be continuing this…collaboration…with Sherlock.”

John sighed. He didn’t like the way Mycroft said that, and he can only be leading up to something dramatic. He tipped his head and raised a brow for the other man to continue with his theatrics. 

“I think it’s time then, that you learned what is really going on in the world.”

John smiled his ‘you don’t scare me’ smile at Mycroft. “Oh?”

Lestrade piped up. “You may as well, Sherlock has hardly been trying to keep a wrap on things. John’s just about figured it out himself.”

Sherlock smirked at that. Proud of the increase in deduction skills he'd seen in John in such a short time.

“Alright, it’s settled then.” Mycroft declared, “John, do have a seat please.” 

The doctor stared at him defiantly, not moving an inch.

Lestrade strode over next to John, turned his back to the brothers, and leaned in to whisper in John’s ear. “You’re going to want to sit down for this one, mate. It’s a bit of shock.” He clasped John’s good shoulder in camaraderie and gave it a squeeze, before tossing himself on the sofa. 

John looked between both Holmes brothers for a moment then reluctantly sat on the opposite end of the couch as Greg.

“Everything evil that you’ve ever heard of, including but not limited to; Vampires, Werewolves, Shapeshifters, and Demons are all real. They live among us, killing, corrupting, and destroying human beings.” Mycroft informed the doctor, watching his fingers as he twirled his umbrella around in his hands.

He shifted his gaze to John’s now inquisitive face. “That being said, Great Britain has the finest reputation for having the lowest numbers of monster induced crime, all thanks to a government run secret society called the Men of Letters.”

John chuckled and looked to Greg, then Sherlock. “Very funny. You honestly expect me to…” John paused as Sherlock shot up out of his chair and rocketed into the kitchen. “…believe that?” He finished incredulously. 

Sherlock quickly returned with the severed head from the fridge, and tossed it at John. The solider instinctively caught it, then immediately dropped it on the coffee table with a loud thud. “Christ Sherlock! What the hell?”

“Check the teeth.” Sherlock demanded. 

“Are you barking mad?” John yelled at him.

“Oh, just do it.” Sherlock yelled back.

John reluctantly grabbed the head again, opening it’s mouth and checking the teeth. “What am I supposed to be seeing here, Sherlock?” He asked.

“Press on his gums.” Greg supplied helpfully. 

John did as told and gasped in disgust as razor sharp fangs revealed themselves. “What…what is it?” John looked up at his friend standing smug in the center of the room.

“Vampire.” Mycroft answered. “We’ve been having a bit of a problem with those nasty creatures as of late.”

“You’re…you’re serious. This is, this is real.” John stammered.

“Buckle up, John. There’s a lot more to cover.” Sherlock told him.


	7. A Heroes Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been updated. It will no longer be a two part, instead I'm adding more to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts in the middle of the brothers conversation with Metatron when they first found him.

The Winchester brothers were sitting in leather armchairs, in the middle of confronting the newly found scribe of God.

“Hey, can you turn that down?” Sam yelled over the ringing in his head. Holding his hands over his ears wasn’t helping.

“Oh, you’re resonating, aren’t you?” Metatron asked Sam.

“Re-Resonating? What do you mean resonating?” Dean stammered.

“You’ve undertaken the trials. You’re trying to pull one of the great levers, aren’t you?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

“You’re pretty far along too. You get that far along you start resonating with the word. Or with it’s source on a material plain…with me.” Metatron smirked, smug with the fact.

“You said you were being careful. Careful how?” Dean asked him.

“I’m not one of them. I’m not an archangel. I’m really more run of the mill. I worked in the secretarial pool before God chose me to take down the word. Anyway, he seemed very worried about his work, what’d happen to it when he left. So, He had me write down instructions. Then, he was gone.”

Metatron pulled an extra chair over and sat in front of the brothers before continuing his story.

“After that, the archangels took over. They cried and they wailed. They wanted their father back. I mean, we all did. But then, then they started to scheme. The archangels decided that if they couldn’t have dad, they’d take over the universe themselves. But they couldn’t do anything that big without the word of God. So, I began to realize maybe they would realize they needed me.“ The angel explained.

“So you get a ruffle your feathers and decided to disappear?” Dean chided. “To go stick your head in the sand, forever?”

Metatron just nodded nonchalantly.

“You have NO idea what’s been going on out there, do you?” Dean lamented.

The scribe shook his head. “Nope. That’s the whole point.”

“So, you’ve been holed up here, or, or in a cave, listening to stories or reading books?”

Metatron laughed in amusement. “It was something to watch.” He told them. “What you brought to his Earth, all the mayhem, the murder. Just the raw, wild, invention of God’s naked apes…it was mind blowing! But really. Really, it was your story telling. That is the true flower of free will. At least, as you mastered it so far. When you create stories, you become gods of tiny, intricate dimensions themselves. So many worlds! I have read as much as is possible for an angel to read and I haven’t caught up.” The angel mused. 

“You know what?” Sam spat. “Pull the fucking trigger.”

Dean’s head snapped up and he looked at his brother, bewildered. 

“What?” Metratron questioned.

“Pull the fucking trigger.” Sam punctuated each word as he shakily stood. “You cowardly piece of shit.” He added, striding forward in a threatening manner.

Dean quickly shot up out of his chair and held a hand up to Sam’s chest. “Woah.” He cautioned.

Sam stopped approaching the angel but continued to berate him. “All the time you’ve been hiding here, how much suffering have you read over? _ Humanities suffering? _ And how much of it has been at the hands of your kind?” Sam shouted. 

Dean pushed his brother back and moved to stand in front of him. “You want a story?” The older Winchester questioned rhetorically. “Try Kevin Tran’s story. He was just a kid. He was a good straight ‘A’ kid and then he got sucked in. To all of this angle crap. He became a prophet of the word of God. Your prophet.” Dean snapped. “Now, you should have been looking out for him. But no. Instead you’re here. Holed up, reading books.” 

“He’s dead now.” Sam interjected angrily. “Because of you.” 

“Kevin Tran?” Metatron clarified.

Sam nodded and blinked away tears.

The scribe looked around the room and tilted his head, as if listening for something. Then he was gone. 

“Oh, great! You utter bastard!” Dean shouted at the stacks of books piled in the room. But moments later Metatron returned with a crumpled young boy in his arms. 

“Kevin?” Dean recognized.

“Kevin!” Sam gasped. 

The angel slumped Kevin into one of the leather armchairs and laid his hand over the boy’s chest. His grace permeated through the prophet and healed him, but Kevin didn’t wake.

“Is that it? Is he good?” Dean asked.

“Give him a minute.” Metatron said solemnly, before retreating to his kitchen. 

Dean followed. “Hey, how’d you get passed Crowley’s warding measures?”

“I’m the scribe of God. I erased it.” The angel answered.

Dean frowned and raised his brows before nodding. “So, you’re caught up on everything that’s been going on. On the crap that your brethren’s been doing to humanity all this time.”

“I saved the boy, didn’t I?” Metatron challenged. 

“But, are you in?” Dean inquired. “With us, I mean.”

“You really intend on closing the doors of hell?”

“Seems like the thing to do, don’t it?”

“It’s your choice. I mean, that’s what this has all been about. The choices your kind make.” Metatron explained. He grabbed a legal pad and pen from the kitchen counter and began to scribble something down as he spoke. “But you’re gonna have to weigh that choice. Ask yourself, what is it going to take to do this? And what will the world be like after it’s done?”

“Hmm.” The hunter grunted noncommittally. He watched Metatron and wondered what he was writing. 

“Dean? Dean!” Sam hollered a minute later from the sitting room.

Dean walked back in to see Kevin opening his eyes. “Kevin?” He asked.

The boy smiled weakly. 

“Hey, we thought we lost you, kiddo.” Dean told him, returning the smile.

“I’m good.” Kevin responded hoarsely, then pulled something from his jacket. “The second half of the tablet.” He explained triumphantly. “And I got it. Third trial. I didn’t tell Crowley.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“To cure a demon.” Metatron stated matter-of-factly.

Looks were exchanged around the room. 

“Yeah.” Kevin confirmed. “Who are you?”

“Metatron.” The angel answered simply.

“The scribe. You…you wrote the tablets.” Kevin marveled. 

Metatron nodded, his smug smile firmly planted. 

“Alright Kevin, let’s get you out of here. You’re coming to the bunker with us.” Dean ordered. He helped the prophet to his feet. “You good?” He asked once Kevin was standing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” The prophet declared.

“What about you, Sasquatch?” Dean asked his brother. 

Sam nodded, despite the fact that he was still a little wobbly. 

Kevin and Sam walked out into the hall but before Dean could leave the threshold, Metatron reached out a hand to grip Dean’s arm. He pulled him back in a few steps and whispered. “Real heroes, the one’s from long ago, like Hercules and Achilles, they didn’t thrive on strength of character alone.” He tucked a folded piece of yellow paper into the breast pocket of Dean’s jacket. “And they all had one weak spot that was their ultimate undoing.”

“Okay…thanks? I guess.” The hunter remarked and then he was out the door.

*************************************************************

In the Impala, on the way back to the bunker, Dean wondered what the hell Metatron was on about. 

“Cure a demon?” He pondered out loud. “Okay, knowing the fact that I don’t actually know what that means, if we do this, you get better, right?” He asked Sam. “And then you stop tryna cough up a lung and bumping into furniture?”

“I feel better, yeah. I’m…just having a direction to move in.” 

“Well good, cause where we’re heading doesn’t sound like a picnic.”

“But we’re heading somewhere.” The Winchester in the passenger seat asserted.

Dean attempted a false smile and then readjusted his focus to the road, only to see something laying in the middle of it. He stomped on the brakes, bringing Baby to a skidding halt. 

He threw it in park and nearly jumped out of the car. “Cas?”

The angel looked up at Dean. There were bruises on his face and blood was soaked through the clothes on his midsection. “A little help here.” He gritted out.

Dean looked to Sam in confusion before rushing over to help Cas to his feet. The angel could barely stand upright.

“What happened to you?”

“Crowley.” Cas seethed before stumbling. Dean caught him and held onto him tighter. As he helped Cas into the backseat next to Kevin, the angel told him something that made his blood run cold. “Crowley, he…Dean, he has the angel tablet.” 

On the ride back to the bunker the brothers caught Kevin and Cas up to speed on everything.

“Metatron. You found Metatron? I was under the impression that he died a long time ago.” Cas informed.

“Yeah, well, he probably wanted everyone to think that he was. The cowardly bastard. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We know what the third trail is now. Sam can get back to normal. And every evil thing lurking in hell will be locked up tight in the pit. Forever.” Dean stated.

“Did Metatron tell you how you’re supposed to ‘cure a demon’? I didn’t realize that was even possible.”

“No.”

“Well, did he say that Sam would feel better after the completion of the trials?”

“Not exactly.”

“Okay. What _ did _ he say? Other than explaining where he’d been all this time?”

“Uh…” Dean thought hard for a moment. “He said that closing the gates of hell was a choice. That we should think about the cost before doing it. Not that that made any sense. I mean, why wouldn’t we lock the door on those sons of bitches now that we know how?”

“Did Metatron say anything else? Anything at all.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, again, it didn’t make much sense. He said something about Hercules and, uh…what’s the other dude’s name? Achilles? Yeah. I don’t know, maybe those were his favorite stories or something.”

“Heroes from the past.” Cas practically whispered. “What did he say about them?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“He said…” Dean took a moment to remember. “They didn’t survive on their character alone and that they all had a weak spot." 

“Oh.” Cas voiced thoughtfully. “Of course.”

“You know what he was talking about?” Sam turned to ask.

“He gave you something, then? Coordinates? A spell? A name?” Cas probed.

“Just this.” Dean said, producing the folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I haven’t looked at it yet.”

Sam grabbed it and unfolded it. “It looks like some sort of spell.”

“A spell for what?” Kevin asked.

“For Sam.” Cas stated. “Here.” He ordered, reaching his hand out to retrieve the note. Sam handed it over. On the top it read: The Trials of God require either a sacrifice or a hero. It’s your choice. Underneath that was a list of ingredients and instructions for the spell. “If a mortal were to complete the trials, it would kill them…” The angel began.

“You’re saying Sam would die?” Dean fumed.

“As he is now, yes.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Cas?” 

“If you’d let me finish…” The angel snapped back. Dean glared at him through the rearview mirror. “I was saying, a mortal can complete the trials but they would die from it. A hero, however, would be a much better choice, because the weight of the trials wouldn’t crush them.” It was silent for a few seconds while Cas let them absorb the news. “The spell Metatron gave you, it’s a Heroes Spell. It would give Sam the ability to take on the last trial without succumbing to the raw holy power of it.”

“Okay.” Dean acquiesced. “Good. Now we know how to make Sam better.”

“A spell.” Sam echoed. “How complicated is it?”

Cas raised his eyebrows and drew his lips tight as he read the list of ingredients. “The spell itself isn’t too complicated. However, some of the ingredients may be a bit hard to procure. Particularly: A weapon forged in hell fire, the skull of a dragon, and a vial of blood that’s descended from an extraterrestrial being.”

“Extraterrestrial being?” Kevin echoed in disbelief.

“Aliens? You can’t be serious.” Dean added. “They’re not real! The only time we even encountered a story of E.T., it was just Gabriel playing tricks.”

“My Father loved to create. He made billions of galaxies. You honestly think yours was the only planet with life on it?” Cas questioned condescendingly.

The rest of the trip was spent in contemplative silence.

*****************************************************

Dean helped Cas get into the bunker and down the stairs. 

“Wow. Cool!” He heard Kevin exclaim when he entered with Sam behind them.

“Yeah, and it’s warded against damn near everything.” The taller Winchester added.

“Woah, where are you going?” Dean asked when Cas pushed away from him and sat at the war room table. 

“We need to discuss the elements of the spell as well as the prospect of actually curing a demon for the final trial.”

“Uh, I mean, yeah, we do. But not until you’re healed up. Cas, you’re not flying off anywhere right now. Not in your condition.”

The angel sighed. 

“Look, why don’t we call it a night and pick this back up in the morning? I’’m exhausted.” Sam said.

Cas reluctantly nodded. 

Sam went off to his room and Dean quickly showed Kevin to a spare one. On his way back to Cas, Dean stopped in the kitchen to grab a couple beers. He walked into the war room cautiously, observing the angels slumped posture. He placed a long neck bottle down on the table in front of the other man with a light thunk. Cas didn’t react. He kept his head down and seemed to be focused inward. 

“Cas.” Dean said gently. “You okay?”

“No.” He responded simply to his lap. Then he lifted his head to look at Dean while putting on a fake smile that resembled a grimace more than anything. “But I will be.” 

Dean settled a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Good.” The hunter declared, patting the spot amicably, though a bit awkwardly. 

It seemed to Cas that Dean didn’t really knew how to act around him most of the time. 

The hand stayed on the angel’s shoulder for a few lingering moments, and the seraph knew why. Dean was contemplating wether he was going to make his next move. It took several more moments before the tattooed blond hesitantly leaned down to press his lips against Cas’. The kiss was light, gentle. 

Cas smiled sadly as Dean pulled away. “I knew you were going to kiss me.” He revealed in a deep somber tone. 

“Really? I didn’t.” The hunter responded truthfully. 

“You only kiss me when one of us is in pain.” Cas stated with certainty. 

“Cas, I…” Dean began, but his argument died in his throat when he realized the angel was right. So the hunter switched tactics and decided to be honest with him. He leaned his backside against the table and sighed. “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m shit at this. Always have been. I don’t know how to do long term relationships.” 

“That makes two of us.” Cas assured. “I…I still have very little grasp on human social norms and all the details that accompany your rituals. Perhaps, we should stray from them, anyway. Our situation is extremely atypical. An angel engaged in a romantic relationship with a human is practically unheard of and is in fact frowned upon by heaven.”

Dean drew a quick drink from his bottle. “Atypical. Yeah, that describes us pretty well.” He chuckled. “We can work it all out later, for now let’s just go to bed.” He stood upright and offered his hand out to Cas, who took it. 

The angel didn’t sleep, but that was alright with him. He would lay and rest while watching over his…boyfriend? Yeah. His Boyfriend. 


	8. Vampires of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John hunt vampires and Mycroft and Greg interrogate them. *Torture Depicted.* Sorry I can't keep on a decent timeline for getting these chapters out. I'm only going to be posting full stories from here on out. I get too distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence, Torture, and Blood. You've been warned.

“Sherlock! The order was to keep them _alive_.” John scolded as the head of vamp rolled towards his feet.

The detective shrugged, not an ounce of remorse in his gesture. “Ugh. Why did I wear my good slacks?” He groaned as he took in the blood covered state of them.

“Because you’re an idiot.” John sighed fondly. “Okay, just remember the plan. Inject them with dead mans blood, then tie them up and leave them until we come back around to collect them all.” 

“All without alerting the entire nest as to whats going on.” Sherlock added unhelpfully.

John nodded, squared his shoulders, and set his jaw. “Let’s finish this.”

They stalked through the corridor of the condemned house, stopping at the entryway to the next room. John peered inside to scope out the number of vamps inside. He held up four fingers to Sherlock. Two each. He didn’t like those numbers. Not when they weren’t supposed to resolve to killing them.

Then an idea came to him. He signaled Sherlock to stay where he was and then quickly darted over to the other side of the door frame. Next he bent down to retrieve a small knife he kept strapped to his ankle, and then threw it down the hall. It clanked and clattered. 

“What was that?” A vampire voiced before adding, “Axel, Marc, go check it out.”

As soon as the aforementioned creatures entered the hall, Sherlock and John ambushed them. Then they rushed in on the other two.

“Good strategy.” Sherlock intoned after.

“You say that like you’re surprised. I was in the army, Sherlock. Remember?”

“You were an army _doctor_.” 

John rolled his eyes, but before he could retaliate three more vamps ran into the room.

Shit. Outnumbered. Not by much, but when the enemy had supernatural strength and agility, it up’ed the chances for injury.

Sherlock pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, smirked at John, and then went straight in towards the pack. “Sherlock!” John shouted, alarmed by the recklessness. The detective got a needle into the first vamps arm and she dropped. But then the other two monsters attacked. They quickly rid the detective of his toxic syringes.

John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small mason jar full of thick black ooze. He undid the lid as quickly as he could, and dipped a knife that he was equipped with into the substance. Sherlock yelled out in pain as a vamp bit into his shoulder. John threw the coated knife expertly at the vampire not attached to Sherlock. It hit her square between the eyes. 

The last vampire unhinged from the detective and yelled with rage. Then she retaliated by grabbing Sherlock’s throat and squeezing. “No!!!” John shouted.

“You killed my mate. Now I’m going to kill yours.”

Sherlock was rapidly losing consciousness. He reached into his suit pocket and grabbed his last syringe. With an enormous amount of effort he raised his arm and stuck the needle down deep into the forearm stemming from the hand around his neck. “You…you…” The vampire spat before dropping heavily to the ground. 

Sherlock wheezed and gasped for breath. “Sherlock! Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” The detective shook his head. He wanted to say ‘not your fault’ but he was incapable of talking just yet. “Come on. Let’s get you out to the box truck. You can rest and I’ll load the vamps into the back.”

***************************************

Mycroft entered the cold, bare, interrogation room and closed the door behind him. His gaze pierced the unfortunate vampire that was chained to the steel table by reinforced restraints, specifically designed to accommodate supernatural strength.

“You will not be granted the mercy of a quick death until you give me the information I require.” The politician stated with cold certainty. He reached up to the knot of his blood red tie and pulled it side to side, loosening it, undoing it, and then tugging it forcefully off his neck and slamming it down on the table. 

“Oooh. Scary.” The creature quipped sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, we’ve barely just begun.” Mycroft assured him. He removed his jet black suit jacket and draped it over the steel chair opposite the vampire as he asked, “Why are your kind flooding into our harbors and streets?” 

“Heard the local…_cuisine_,” The vamp sneered with implications, “was especially good this time of century.” A nasty smile crept over his lips and he added, “It hasn’t disappointed.”

A cruel smile played across Mycroft’s face. He was going to enjoy making this one talk. “Gregory. I shall require my tools now.” He called out towards the two way mirror. He began unbuttoning his wrist cuffs as his victim studied him curiously.   
“You know, I don’t normally get a strip tease from the hunters that have _attempted_ to gain knowledge from me.”

“Well, for starters, I am not a hunter. I am a man of letters.” Mycroft explained as he carefully rolled up his sleeves and re-buttoned them at the elbow. “I’m also a man of impeccable taste and I would prefer not to get blood stains on my Westwood attire.”

The door to the room opened and Greg rolled in a cart filled with all sorts of menacing looking weapons and tools. The D.I. glared at the vampire, taking in it’s greasy appearance, skinny frame, and dread locked hair. “You sure you’re going to be able to extract any information from this one, Mycroft? He looks like the nest’s lackey, at best.”

The vamp’s eyes flashed with anger, which caused Greg to smirk in response. Mycroft took less than a second to read into his counterpart’s interrogation technique. He sighed dramatically as his hands roamed over the supply of torture devices at his disposal. “I suppose you are correct, Gregory. He’s not likely to know anything at all. Perhaps it would be prudent to just kill him quickly and move onto the next vampire.” 

The creature chuckled half heartedly. “Show’s how much you imbeciles know.” A roll of the eyes echoed his distain for the humans in front of him. “Oh?” Mycroft questioned. He picked up a small blade, eyed it thoughtfully, then replaced it on the tray. He returned his gaze to his victim, then preceded to pick up a simple hammer. 

The vampire’s eyes flickered from the weapon, now at Mycroft’s side, to his face. He noticed the muscles in the tall man’s forearm flex as he gripped the handle tighter. Saw the calm yet malevolent intent behind his eyes. This man was dangerous, the vamp decided. Darker than he first assessed. Mycroft stepped closer and raised to strike. The vampire’s whole body tensed, his head snapped to the side, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait! Wait!” He shouted, voice laced with fear and anger. 

“Unless you tell me what I need to know, I will alight the nerves in the areas you’re most sensitive to pain, with such force that you will be brought to the very brink of your threshold, and then,” Mycroft rested the blunt head of the hammer on the vampire’s sternum and pressed into it to emphasize his point, “then I will keep you there indefinitely.”

“That’s eloquent speak for torture.” Greg supplied. “See, Mycroft, here, is well practiced in that field. An expert, actually. So, if I were you, I’d start talking.” He supplied in a dangerous voice.

The vamps face paled. “You guys are fucking sick.” He snapped. “What do you guys get off on trying to hurt people or something?” He rocked back and forth in his chair, pulling at the chains, making a loud racket.

“Not the words we were looking for. And you are not a _person_. You are an abomination.” Greg sneered. “Mycroft?”

The hammer came down with precise force and a sickening crack, as it shattered a kneecap.

A horrific scream filled the small room. When the politician receded from the attack, his weapon dripped thick deep red blood onto the floor.

“MOTHERFUCKER!!!” The monster screamed at the men of letters. His fangs extended and he tried admirably to surge forward out of his restraints, but to no avail. Another string of profanities spewed from his mouth. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to rip your throats out!”

Greg nodded to Mycroft, signaling him to keep going. The hammer was drawn up again and then rendered the other knee useless. More blood. More screams. More pain. 

The vampire heaved, trying to take in enough oxygen. His mind swirled with pain. Tears streaked his face. “My f…my father is coming.” He warned between gulps of air. “He will…destroy you...destroy you all.” The vampire groaned in agony. 

“Your father is the reason you’re here?” Mycroft inferred, twirling the hammer. 

“Yes.” The vamp gulped.

“Elaborate.”

“You already broke both of my knees, you bastard.” 

“There are 206 bones in the adult body. I’ve only demolished two of yours.”

The vamp contemplated this as he reeled from the pain of shattered kneecaps. “He…our father…can send messages…to all vampires, telepathically.”

Mycroft and Greg shared a knowing smile. 

“You already knew that. Didn’t you?” The creature sobbed.

“What was the message?” Greg demanded.

“Invade. Invade the United Kingdom.”

“Why?” The D.I. pressed as he folded his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know.” The vamp answered. Mycroft grabbed his arm and yanked it forward, splaying his hand across the tabletop. 

“I. Don’t. Know!” The vamp reiterated with a shout. Mycroft raised the hammer and swung it down onto the vampire’s middle finger, crushing the fingertip.

The room filled with more screams. “I don’t know! I swear I don’t know!!!” The vampire cried.

“I believe you.” Mycroft stated flatly, then nodded to his work partner.

Greg picked up a machete and walked swiftly over. He pulled it in towards his chest, and then swung it out hard, slicing through the vampire’s neck like it was nothing. It’s head rolled off it’s shoulders and dropped to the floor. Blood spurted from the body and coated the sleeve of Greg’s dress shirt. 

“Ah, fuck.” He cursed before turning to lay the machete on the table with a clank. “Shirt’s ruined. Ah well, I’m sure the rest of my clothes will be too before we’re done. We have seven more vampires to interrogate.”

***********************************************************

“Eight vamps and not one of them knew why their Alpha sent them here.” Greg recapped as he aggressively wiped the blood off of his latest blade. The last vampire sat headless in the steel chair. Mycroft eyed the D.I. as he rolled his tense shoulders. 

“Your shoulder’s sore from all the beheading.” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.

“Yep.” Greg nodded, popping the ‘p’ as he tossed the weapon onto the table with a loud clang. He sighed. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Perhaps I could help. Remove your shirt.” 

Greg raised an eyebrow in question.

“Please?” The politician added. “It’s ruined anyway.”

“Pretty sure your suit’s not gonna survive either.” Greg snipped.

“Are you insinuating that I should remove my clothing as well?”

“No. No. Don’t do that. I don’t need you to…I’ll be fine, Mycroft. I’m a big boy.” The D.I huffed.

“Indeed you are.” Was the answer. And If Greg didn’t know any better, he might have thought there was a hinting tone in Mycroft’s voice.

“Look…” Greg started, raising his hands to gesture as he began to explain. “I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t hotter than sin to see you in action today, Mycroft. But…” Greg let the sentence die off. He dropped his hands to his sides, and not knowing what else to do with them, shoved them into his pockets.

“You weren’t so bad yourself.” Mycroft ventured carefully, stepping toward the other man. 

Greg’s gaze snapped to Mycroft’s face. His brows furrowed and his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown. He tried to analyze the expressions on the taller man’s face as he approached. Mycroft could always read him like an open book. Why couldn’t Greg get a read on _him_?__

_ _The taller man stepped forward into Greg’s space and hesitantly began unbuttoning the D.I.’s blood stained shirt. “Mycroft.” He whispered. Not a protest. Not a plea. Just a name._ _

_ _“Gregory.” Mycroft’s hands stilled as he wrestled with the next two words. “I’m sorry.” It was the first time Greg had ever heard Mycroft apologize. For anything. “I…Well. I didn’t handle it particularly well when you began expressing feelings for me the last time. I shouldn’t have used your wife’s affair as a weapon.”_ _

_ _“Ex-wife.” Greg immediately responded. Surprising himself even at how fast he corrected the other man._ _

_ _“Right. Ex-wife.” Mycroft amended with a tiny smirk. He unfastened the rest of the buttons and slipped the stained fabric off of the old copper. ”Here, sit down.” He ordered._ _

_ _Greg sat in the empty chair and Mycroft rounded it to stand behind him. Neither of them seemed to give a single care about the dead body in the other. _ _

_ _Mycroft’s stomach flipped as his nerves began to impede his body. He took a deep steadying breath and then laid his hands on Greg’s bare shoulders. As he released the air in his lungs, he dug his thumbs into the tissue where neck met shoulders and began to rub the tension out._ _

_ _A deep groan left Greg’s lips. His poor muscles really were quite sore. _ _

_ _“Gregory…” Mycroft began._ _

_ _“Yeah?” _ _

_ _“I would like to try this again…if you want to as well, of course. But not the same as last time. I mean really try. An actual relationship.” His hands continued their work but he found himself holding his breath as he waited for an answer. It was quiet for several long seconds and Mycroft’s hands stilled. _ _

_ _“Gregory?” Mycroft quickly glided around the chair to face the other man, resting his hands on the steel arms. Greg’s face was scrunched in thought. “That’s probably a bad idea.” He voiced._ _

_ _Mycroft reached out and rested one hand at the base of Greg’s neck, the other on his chest. “You’re right. Could be a terrible idea.”_ _

_ _A moment was all it took before Greg snapped. He buried a fist in Mycroft’s shirt and tugged him into a brutal kiss. The politician practically fell into his lap. Not that the D.I. was complaining. _ _

_ _

_ _***********************************************************_ _

_ _

_ _There was a knock on the door of 221B. John wasn’t sure why Greg had even bothered, since he let himself in immediately after._ _

_ _“Greg! Any news?” John asked, ignoring the previous thought._ _

_ _“Some. How’s Sherlock?” He responded while stripping off his gloves and shoving them into his coat pockets._ _

_ _John gestured out to the couch, where the detective was laying, a big ugly neck brace on._ _

_ _Greg laughed at the sight. “How are you holding up Sherlock? You look like you got your ass handed to you by a couple of vamps.”_ _

_ _Sherlock’s answer was an erect middle finger to the D.I. Which only made him laugh harder. “Looks like he’ll be fine.”_ _

_ _“Well, he’s got me, so yeah, he will be.” John assured, arms crossed and resting over his broad chest. ”Now, what did you and Mycroft get out of the nest? Do you know why they’re flocking to England?” John asked._ _

_ _The smile dropped from Greg’s face and he sighed. “It’s the Alpha. He’s instructing them to invade the UK.”_ _

_ _John’s jaw clenched. “The Alpha? Why?”_ _

_ _“Ah. Don’t know. Not sure that many of the vampires know either. But he’s obviously planning something. Something big.”_ _

_ _“Well, great. That sounds cheerful.” John replied sarcastically. _ _

_ _“You know, this is the quietest I’ve seen Sherlock. When he’s conscious, anyway.” Greg commented._ _

_ _Another rude gesture was made and Greg was laughing again. _ _

_ _“Do text me updates on his condition though, if you don’t mind.” The D.I. asked after he regained his composure. “‘I’ve gotta dash.” He added regretfully. _ _

_ _“Tell Mycroft not to worry so much. Sherlock is in my care, after all.” John reprimanded._ _

_ _“Yeah, well, it’s not just Mycroft that worries.” Greg replied before heading out the door and down the steps._ _

_ _When he was out on the street, he pulled out his phone and saw that he had a text._ _

_ _ **We still need to get to the bottom of this mess that the Alpha’s created. MH** _ _

_ _ **What if we go to the top of it instead? GL** _ _

_ _ **Do elaborate. MH** _ _

_ _ **What if we went straight for the Alpha? GL** _ _


	9. Digging Through the Archives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam searches for a demon cure while Dean and Cas search for two of the three heroes spell ingredients.

"Please tell me that's everything." Sam groaned as Dean handed him another large stack of files. 

Dean flashed a fake smile that immediately fell. "No." He deadpanned. Then he waved a flat hand in front of him as he followed it up with, "Not even _close_." 

" The shorter brother rounded the table and pulled out a chair. "See, the Men of Letters kept files on every demonic possession for the last 55 years." 

Sam dropped the files he was holding onto the war room table and clutched his head just as Dean sat down. 

"How ya feeling there, Sasquatch?" Dean asked, poised to stand right back up.

Sam held up a hand to stop him, then he took a deep breath before answering. "Honestly? Um. My, uh, whole body hurts. I feel nauseous and like I'm starving at the same time. Oh, and everything smells like rotted meat." This time Sam wore the quick-to-fade fake smile. 

"I've had that hangover before." Dean supplied unhelpfully as Sam lifted his head to glare at him. "Jager, man." Dean shrugged. 

After a beat of awkward silence the older brother added, "Maybe you should, uh, take a break." He absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck. "Ya know, get some fresh air?" 

"Dean, the only thing that's gonna make me feel better is finding this cure." 

"Alright. Yeah." Dean nodded. "Well, I'll grab ya some grub so you can keep your strength up." As soon as he stood, the door to the bunker swung open and Cas clambered down the metal staircase. Heavy footsteps caused thunderous noise. 

"Hello Dean." He greeted the eldest Winchester when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Mornin' Sunshine." Dean replied, heading towards the angel. "Sam's tryna find something on how to 'cure a demon.' Men of Letters ought to have something helpful hidden away in here." He clasped Cas on the shoulder and smiled at him fondly. 

"I concur." Cas agreed. He looked over at Sam, who was smiling weakly at the seraphim. "There is a plethora of information and resources in this bunker." 

"Speaking of." Dean interjected, bring his hand up and back down in a sort of patting manner on Cas' shoulder. "I found some old weaponry that I want you to check out. See if it's what we need for the heroes spell." 

"Of course." Was the immediate answer. "Though, it's highly unlikely that the Men of Letters would possess such an weapon. Even with their knack for procuring rare supernatural items." 

"That's the spirit Cas." Dean snarked. 

*********************************************************

"Check it out!" Dean exclaimed as he clumsily attempted to wield what looked like a short sword with gold in it. "The Spear of Destiny!" The broad blade fumbled out of his hands and clattered onto the floor. He rapidly picked it up, as though to recover his move. 

"Dean. You're going to stab one of us with that blade." Cas chided. "Besides, that was forged in Heaven, not hell." 

"Oh." Dean deflated. "Well, what about the rest of these?" He asked, gesturing to a vast expanse of weapons laid out on a table in front of them.

Cas' brows scrunched slightly as he quickly scanned over the objects. "None of these are what we require for the spell." He scowled. 

"Shit. I really thought there would be _something_ here we could use." 

They stood in thoughtful silence for a few moments before Dean asked, "What now? Can you take a trip to hell and make a...I don't know, knife, or sword, or something?" 

Cas leaned into the table and glared at his boyfriend. "Oh yeah. I'll just pop on down to hell and do some blacksmithing. Any other requests? Should I extract the iron for it from the blood of your enemies as well?" 

Dean rolled his eyes. "Alright Cas, fine. I get the point. But we either need to find a weapon or have one made." 

A realization hit Cas and he straightened up like a rod. "Hephaestas." 

"Come again?" Dean asked with the raise of an eyebrow. 

"He..." Cas looked over, directly at Dean. "He's the the blacksmith of the gods, and most likely the only being capable of forging weapons in hell fire. That is, if he's even still alive. Most of the gods he worked for were killed during the apocalypse." 

"It's worth a shot." Dean nodded, a small smile forming on his face at Cas' sudden perkiness. "Let's go find him." The Winchester made to go off to gather his things, but Cas stopped him with a hand to his chest. "No. You stay here and locate the dragon skull. I'll go to hell and search for Hephaestas." 

Dean looked down at the angel's hand on his torso, then back up at Cas. Was he trying to protect him from re-experiencing hell? 

"Cas. I'm more than capable of handling myself in hell." He defended. His pride a little sore. 

"I know." Cas assured, his hand pushing slightly more into Dean's chest to emphasize. "But we need to find ingredients for your brothers spell as quickly as possible. So I need you to stay here and take care of the next item we require." 

Dean slowly nodded and he reached a hand up to cup his angel's face and leaned in to kiss him gently.

As he leaned back he made sure to tell Cas, "You better come back in one piece or I'll kick your ass." Dean meant to sound serious, but he ended up just sounding worried instead. 

"Love you too." Cas chuckled.

*********************************************************************

Dean ventured into the war room, where Sam was nose deep into research. He cleared his throat noisily to catch his brother's attention.

"Oh, hey." Sam muttered, still very much distracted by his work. 

"Hey, so uh, none of the weapons we have in the bunker are what we need for the heroes spell." Dean informed him as he approached the table. 

"Huh. Thought there might have been _something_ useful in the archives." Sam commented, sitting more upright in his chair and preparing to give Dean more of his attention. 

"Right?!?" Dean asked, gripping the edge of the table and dipping his head forward to emphasize. "Anyways, Cas went off to go search for a god named He...fest-ti-uhs?" He grabbed a stray paper off of the table to scan, and Sam snatched it back.

"It's pronounced 'Hih-feast-us." Sam corrected and Dean rolled his eyes at him. "The blacksmith of the gods. That's very smart. He could forge the weapon we need."

"Yeah, exactly. God, you're such a nerd." Dean teased as he sat on the arm of the nearest chair.

"At least I'm not a jerk." Sam threw back.

"Bitch."

Sam leaned back into his seat and bit the inside of his bottom lip. "So, your boyfriend took off without you then?" 

"Cas wanted me to stay behind to find the dragon skull." Dean pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at Sam. "He gave me an incantation for a location spell before he left though." 

Sam briskly rubbed his face and then stood up. "I'll grab a map. I could use a break." 

Dean nodded. "Sounds good. I'll grab us some beers." 

Several minutes later the war room table was cleared off except for the map and beers. Dean read off the incantation as Sam put a lighter to the corner of the parchment. It was quickly engulfed in flames and the brothers stood watching as the entire thing turned to ash. They exchanged confused looks. "I...guess there's no dragon skulls in the US?" Sam hypothesized. "Sammy, we're gonna need a bigger map." Dean grinned, proud of the reference he made. 

The second time around a world map was used and six small patches were left unburned. Sam grabbed a notebook and jotted down the locations. London, Egypt, Kabul, Osaka, Xi'an, and Papua New Guinea. "Only six dragon skulls in the entire world." He whispered in amazement to himself. 

"London it is." Dean announced loudly. "At least they speak English there, even if it is old and weird." 

Sam huffed in annoyance. "Look, just because you're uncultured doesn't give you the right to be ignorant." "Hey-" Dean began to protest. "However, I do agree that London is the first place you and Cas should check out." 

"Okay. So now we're just waiting on Cas to get back." Dean said before taking a draw from his beer. 

"London is a _HUGE_ city though, Dean. Any idea how your going to find the needle in the haystack?" Sam closed the notebook and looked over at his brother with a quizzical expression. 

Dean sighed. "Maybe Cas will know."

"And if he doesn't?" 

"Ugh, fine." Dean complained. "I'll do some research to see if I can find something that will help." 

****************************************************************

After a few days of the brothers buried deep in research, Dean found something promising. He startled Sam out of his concentration when he hollered out, "Yes!" and slammed his fist down on the war room table. "Finally!" 

"Whad'ja find?" Sam asked. 

"There _is_ something useful in this bunker! I knew it!" Dean lifted up the file he'd been reading and pointed at it. "It's an enchanted object that indicates when supernatural artifacts are nearby." 

Sam reached out for the file, then quickly skimmed it when Dean handed it over. "A necklace. Huh." He mused. "So, you think it'll work for a dragon skull?" 

"Worth a shot." Dean shrugged. "Now if Cas would get his feathery ass back here, we could be on our way." 

Sam held up a hand at Dean. "Dude. I don't want to know any details about your boyfriend's ass." 

"It's not _really_ covered in feathers." 

"Don't want to know." 

"He _does_ have some freckles..." 

"DON"T. WANT. TO. KNOW!" Sam bellowed, throwing the papers in his hands at his brother to get him to shut the hell up. They flew around in a flurry of white, none of them hitting their target. 

Dean chuckled full heartedly. He loved riling his brother up.

**************************************************

A week had passed since Cas left and Dean was starting to worry. He even began helping Sam with his demonic possession research to get his mind off of it. 

He was alone in the war room, leaned back in a chair with his feet up on the table and a beer in his hand, when the bunker door creaked open and Cas walked in. "There he is!" Dean announced, placing his feet back to the floor and smiling at his angel as he descended the staircase. "And with weapon in tow." 

Dean noted the huge, what was that? A spear? In Cas' hand. It had a gold tip but the handle looked to be made out of carved wood.

"It took a week for Hepaestas to make _that_ ?" The Winchester questioned, pointing at the stabby stick.

Castiel raised the weapon slightly and nodded towards it. "No. Hephaestas is dead." He stated coldly. 

"Oh." 

"This is, however, one of his creations. Made eons ago for a... _'brother'_ of mine." Cas practically spat out the last few words. 

"You look like you've been to hell and back." Dean joked. He really did though, his trench coat covered in soot and slightly singed at the bottom and the angel seemed to have a don't mess with me attitude. (So, of course Dean was messing with him.) 

"I have." Cas responded flatly. 

"Right." Dean stated dumbly. "That's why I s...you know what? Nevermind." He waved his hands in front of him as if to erase his words. 

"So what is this then? The Lance of Gabriel? The Javelin of Sarathiel?" Dean guessed wildly. 

Cas looked like he was exhausted with Dean's antics already. "It's Lucifer's Spear. And it took me a while to get because it was locked away in one of his ancient crypts." 

"Oh...kay. Moving on from that can of worms. Now we have the weapon forged in hell." Dean gestured to the spear. "So next up is the dragon skull. Which is apparently in London." He pretended to tip his nonexistent hat. "You know, England." 

"So." Dean clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "How soon will you be up to traveling again?" 


End file.
